


in the dark I can hear your heartbeat

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Blackwater AU, Canon - TV, Cunnilingus, F/M, Kink Meme, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hound didn't desert, Joffrey accepted the Tyrell betrothal, Cersei panicked, and now Sandor Clegane is married to Sansa Stark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the dark I can hear your heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> For the sansan_got 2012 kink meme, prompt: "Sandor never flees Kings Landing. So when Joffrey publicly ends his betrothal to Sansa Stark, Cersei--knowing she needs Sansa until Jaime is safe and sound--pays off a high-septa to marry her to Sandor Clegane, her son's sworn shield. (Think: Shot gun wedding in order to keep Sansa at King's Landing.) 10 points if, consummated or not, Sansa spends most of the wedding night talking Sandor's ear off." 
> 
> WARNING: Underage oral sex (cunnilingus). Inappropriate thoughts, references to abuse and attempted rape.

* * *

"Will it hurt very much?" the little bird asks. Her voice quivers only the the slightest. She is a braver girl than he used to give her credit for.  
  
Not having to sit through a long, loud feast and then be pawed at and stripped bare in front of the likes of Joffrey and Baelish and the Imp and any other fuckers who would scramble to undress her probably helps.  
  
'It is almost like we have run away,' she had whispered when the ceremony was done; more to herself than to him. 'Run away and eloped. Almost romantic.' Her eyes had been full of tears she had not allowed to fall.  
  
"No, little bird. You won't feel a thing."  
  
Sansa's shoulders shake briefly; he can hear her take a shuddering breath. She refuses to cry, for which he's grateful.  
  
He remembers her weeping after he found her trying to hide her moonblood. He isn't sure how to handle it if she starts to cry now, more at his mercy than ever before. As gently as he is able to, he brushes his fingers through her hair - something he's always wanted to do but never before had the luxury.  
  
"You don't have to lie," she whispers. "I know... I know that it hurts the first time."  
  
Sandor swallows and steps back, hands falling from her hair. He turns away to pour himself a drink; he hasn't had a drop since the Battle of Blackwater Bay.  
  
The soft rustling behind him makes it clear that his little bird - his little wife, seven fucking hells - is disrobing down to her smallclothes.  
  
"May I have a drink, as well, my lord?"  
  
Sandor almost starts to correct her - the words 'I'm not a lord' are on his tongue. And then it hits him that technically speaking, he is her lord husband. Her lord. Her husband. He's been given Sansa Stark, to keep her bound to the Lannisters.  
  
The little bird belongs to the dog, the dog belongs to the lions.  
  
Damn the bloody lions. _Damn the bloody dog._  
  
He pours her a cup and sets it on the table. "Drink a few cups, and you likely won't remember a thing in the morning. Is that the plan, little bird?"  
  
"No. I only-"  
  
Sandor downs the rest of his drink. "I'm not going to touch you, girl. Have your drink and get some sleep." He does not turn to face her, because that might break his resolves to do right by her - or send him fleeing from her and the too small room. That would only lead to whispers that would not do either of them any favors. He wants another cup of wine, but he can't risk it. He's had enough to take the edge off. Any more and he might not have the best control over himself. He refuses to let himself do anything either of them will regret.  
  
"But..." The little bird trails off. After an awkward silence she comes over and takes the cup he poured for her; one pale, slender arm moving into his peripheral vision. Then the rest of her steps into his sight; beautiful, little bird, stripped of her feathers. Her smallclothes leave little to his imagination.  
  
He's seen glimpses before; thanks to fucking Joffrey and fucking Trant and those buggering peasants that tried to break her. But he never let himself look, really look. And those glimpses were nothing compared to this.  
  
Sansa Stark is more woman than child, least when it comes to her body. That's a bloody problem.  
  
"You want someone like me to fuck you, girl?" he snaps. He doesn't mean to, but he's angry. At Cersei and Tywin, at Joffrey, at the little bird. At himself. He grabs her chin and makes her look at him, her cheeks blushing bright red and her eyes wide. "You want someone like me taking your maidenhead?"  
  
For a moment she looks as though she might finally cry. Her eyes are full of tears again, and she's trembling. But one hand reaches up, fingers laying over his wrist - only touching, not trying to move his hand away. "Better than someone like Joffrey."  
  
Sandor can feel his shoulders slumping, the tension easing a little; all of his anger and arousal fade. He had never really thought he would ever be the better option, but he remembers the two whores Tyrion had bought for Joffrey, remembers carrying the brunette's bleeding, broken body back to the Imp. "Aye. But not by much, little bird. Now get some rest."  
  
"I don't think I can sleep, my lord," she tells him as his hand drops and he holds up her forgotten cup of wine.  
  
"Then drink. One cup should help."  
  
The little bird hesitates, then takes the cup from him and has a swallow. She sputters the tiniest bit, wiping a drop from the corner of her mouth.  
  
Sandor laughs. "Stronger stuff than you're used to, girl?"  
  
"Yes." But she raises the cup to her lips and takes another gulp. Her eyes clench shut, and she shudders, but she gets it down without a sputter or a cough. "I don't think I can drink all of it." The little bird looks up at him, almost sheepish.  
  
"Then give it here. No sense in wasting it." Sandor takes the cup and downs what's left - it isn't much, not enough to make him lose his wits.  
  
Sansa walks over towards the bed. It's barely big enough for him, let alone for two people, and she looks over at him, uncertain. "Do you wish to make yourself comfortable first?" She sounds like a child then, though she looks like a woman. The girl is taller than many men, tall enough that he does not even dwarf her.  
  
"I'm taking the floor, little bird."  
  
Her eyes go round for a moment. "It is your bed, my lord."  
  
"Would you stop calling me that?" He does not quite snap this time; almost though.  
  
Sansa bites her lip and then speaks, talking too fast, too nervous. "I beg your pardon. I do not know what else to call you. I cannot call you dog, because you are not a dog, nor do I wish to call you Hound. Yet you told me earlier never to call you ser. And you are my lord husband-"  
  
"I know," he cuts her off.  
  
"Shall I call you Sandor?"  
  
It is the second time he has heard his name today. It was easier to pay little mind to it during the ceremony, but hearing his little bird call him by his name is something strange and new. He can't even remember when was the last time someone called him by that before today. It's always dog or Hound or Clegane.  
  
But Sansa Stark is different. So maybe it would not be so bad to have her call him that. Every day.  
  
Every day.  
  
Seven fucking hells, every night is going to be like this.  
  
"Yes," he finally agrees. "Now get in the bed." He grabs one of the blankets and heads for the corner closest to his door. Far from the bed.  
  
"Sandor?" His little bird chirps the moment he settles down. "What if they check the sheets? For blood?"  
  
"I'll take care of it."  
  
Sansa studies him for a moment, and then slips into the bed, pulling the sheet over herself. She lays on her side so that she is facing him, which is unsettling for some reason. The girl oddly keeps watching him. "Thank you. Sandor." She adds his name as though she wasn't certain it was proper but decided to say it anyway.  
  
He isn't quite sure how to respond. He isn't tipsy, but the wine was good, and he's a little more relaxed at last. Except that everything is really sinking in.  
  
He is married to Sansa Stark. Sansa Stark has been married to him; him of all buggering people. He is no longer part of the Kingsguard, his refusal to say the vows leaving him free to carry out Cersei's demands, and now he's a husband to a terrified fourteen year old girl, who in King's Landing is the daughter of a traitor and up north the sister of a king.  
  
So what in the seven hells is he supposed to do now? Still Joffrey's sworn shield, still a Lannister dog. He's to keep Sansa trapped and bound; when the Starks learn that Sansa's been wed to The Hound, oh, they'll be angry. But if harm befalls Jaime, no doubt they imagine that like a good Lannister dog he'll punish his wife for it.  
  
Sandor gets up and storms over to the table, grabs the wine jug, and pours himself another cup. There's a sick feeling in his gut at the implications; he isn't Gregor.  
  
He isn't his fucking brother. But there are only two Cleganes left in the world - and who's fault is that? - and Gregor's made a reputation that's tainted the whole of their house.  
  
"I'm sorry," the little bird says.  
  
Sandor can't supress a bitter laugh. "Bugger that, girl. You didn't do a damn thing. You can't do a damn thing, except chirp your courtesies and lies. Nod your head and smile and play along. So what do you have to be sorry for, girl?" He looks over at her, now sitting up on his bed - the little bird in her small clothes on his bed.  
  
Sansa's jaw clenches, her glassy eyes narrowing into a glare - like the glare she directed at him in the corridor when he threw her belated gratitude back in her face. "What have I done to offend you so, _Hound_? I was sorry, because I thought I had upset you somehow, and I am trying not to. I only want to be a good wife-"  
  
He strides over to the bed and covers her mouth with one hand, snarling; "No, you don't. Don't lie, little bird. I hate liars. And this rat's nest is full of them. You don't want to be a good wife to me, you don't want to be a wife to me at all. Aye, I'm better than Joffrey, but how much does that really say about me? It wasn't fear that made me marry you today. The Lannisters say 'kill' and I kill. The Lannisters said 'marry' so I did. But you..." He pauses, drops his hand, drops his eyes. He hates the way she looks at him - genuinely looks at him - and how pathetic he feels. "You married me because you had no choice. I know why you lie, girl. I know why when tomorrow comes, you will play the dutiful wife. You will tell them you are grateful to be married to me. To not be locked away like a traitor. But in here, in this room, don't."  
  
He stands there for a moment, leaning over the bed and unable to look at her. Then he sits on the edge, head in his hands. He hadn't meant to do that, but Sansa Stark, his little bird, is his wife. And deep down he knows that he won't always be able to protect her from Joffrey, and he knows that he won't always be able to protect her from himself.  
  
_Seven hells._  
  
Sandor cannot live with himself if he becomes Gregor. He cannot.  
  
"No," she whispers. "I do not want to be married to you. I do not want to be married at all, I think. But I am. And, I am grateful that it is you, and not Joffrey. Or some other Lannister, or some stranger that I do not even know that they picked. You... while you can be awful, you have, at times, shown me kindness. I know that you lied that day, at Joffrey's name day tourney. And I remember when you wiped my lip and gave me your handkerchief. And when you covered me with your cloak. I still have it, I still have both of them. I thought of those moments, and when you saved me the day of the riots; all throughout the wedding, I thought of those moments.  
  
"I may not want to be married, but I am. And I may not be what you would have wanted in a wife, but you have been kind to me. I will...I will try to be a good wife for you."  
  
Sandor almost snorts in disbelief that the girl could think for a moment she isn't what he wants in a wife. But then he has not given her much reason to believe otherwise, has he? His kindness has been minimal, and carefully done so as to not draw too much attention.  
  
He remembers giving her the handkerchief. And draping his cloak over her, for once almost grateful to the Imp. There is a strange sensation in his chest at the thought that she has kept both, that she might touch them with fondness.  
  
"You said you would stand between me and Joffrey when I became queen. I will never become queen now, but I am your wife. I know that Joffrey could still hurt me, any of the Lannisters could." The little bird moves closer to him, and places her hands on his shoulder.  
  
Sandor lowers his hands and lifts his head to look at her. His wife. He curses the Lannisters and himself and the girl's too honorable father, because someone as lovely and good as her shouldn't be bound to a brutish fool like him. But she is, so he swallows and nods. "I'll protect you, Little bird. I'll keep you safe."  
  
Sansa smiles. A real smile. It's small and weak, but it reaches her eyes all the same.  
  
It's almost impossible for Sandor not to groan when that has an unfortunate and unwelcome effect on him. He rises from the bed and grabs the wine jug to take with him back to his corner. "Try to sleep now, little bird." The sooner she sleeps, the sooner he can take care of his needs. He wishes he could leave the room, but he doesn't want to be seen by one of the Spider's fucking "birds" flitting about.  
  
"I can't."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
The girl is not making this easy for him.  
  
"I don't think the drink helped much. I still don't feel tired."  
  
Sandor blows the lantern out, leaving the room in near darkness, save for a bit of moonlight streaming in through the tiny window. "Lay down, close your eyes, and you'll feel tired soon enough." He sits back down in his corner while listening to Sansa moving on the bed. He isn't a praying man, but he's half tempted to pray that she falls asleep quickly. He's rather uncomfortable at this point.  
  
"How are you going to take care of the blood?"  
  
Sandor groans. "I'll cut my arm and let it bleed onto the bed. Go to sleep."  
  
"What about when we...if we ever do..."  
  
His dick twitches at the thought. "We won't, little bird."  
  
"But we're married. And I...one day, I might..."  
  
Sandor takes a swig of wine and closes his eyes, teeth grinding. Fuck, when she gives him hope like that... "Then if we ever do and our sheets are still being spied on, Joffrey can simply believe that I'm rough with you. It would probably put him in a good mood. Go to sleep, girl."  
  
"...I still can't," she whispers apologetically.  
  
"Still not tired?"  
  
"No."  
  
An idea comes to mind, and he tells himself no. But the wine is starting to go to his head now, and he can still smell his pretty bird's scent lingering on him."Do you trust me, little bird?"  
  
There is a moment's hesitation, but then, "Yes."  
  
"Undress," he instructs while rising. He leaves the wine jug near the corner and easily finds his way back over to the bed. He can see her a little in the dark - paler in the dim moonlight, awkwardly fumbling out of her smallclothes. He's tempted - and he hates himself for it - to shrug out of his tunic and breeches and claim her tonight. He could be gentle, he thinks. Horseshit, he knows. Instead he slides his hands under her once she's still, and moves her so that she is sitting on the edge of the bed.  
  
"Sandor?" She sounds so innocent. Her arms are folded across her breasts, legs closed together while she fidgets. "Are we...?"  
  
"No, little bird," he reassures her, stroking her hair. He leans in and kisses her temple. It's an awkward gesture, but he feels more awkward when he kisses her mouth. "Lay back and spread your legs. You want to talk? Then talk to me. Tell me what feels good. Tell me what doesn't." He kisses her again and then places his hands on her shoulders.  
  
She lets him guide her to lay down, though her hands still cover her breasts. Her breath is coming in erratic pants. Her legs spread only a little.  
  
Sandor rubs her sides, not quite lost but not exactly confident either. He isn't used to tending to a woman's needs, let alone a frightened girl's needs. So he keeps rubbing her sides and her hips. His thumbs brush over her stomach, just under her breasts, then down to her thighs.  
  
"That feels pleasant," she tells him after a minute. Her body is starting to relax more. "Your hands are warm."  
  
He hopes that makes up for how rough he's sure they feel. But he keeps rubbing, starting to move his fingers over her thighs more, thumbs stroking near her cunt. He can feel her curls against the edges of his fingers.  
  
She starts slightly, her hips giving a little jerk.  
  
"Ever touched yourself there, girl? Or is that too improper for a lady?" He leans down and kisses her, just above her curls, and chuckles when she gasps rather loudly.  
  
"Of course it's improper!"  
  
"Aye, but you have done it before? What a wicked little bird," he rasps, kissing her navel. He grins when she lets out a scandalized whimper.  
  
"No! I have never!"  
  
"But you only said it was improper, not that you never touched yourself."  
  
"I meant that I hadn't!"  
  
Sandor chuckles again and gently moves Sansa's hands from her breasts, moving up enough to kiss her. One hand covers her left breast, and the other he lays over her cunt, letting her get used to his presence there. "You are a married woman now, little bird. Married to a dog. Not much is improper anymore."  
  
Sansa starts to say something, but whatever it is turns into a little squeak as Sandor lightly pinches her nipple. "Oh! That..."  
  
"Good?"  
  
"I think."  
  
He moves his head to her other nipple and licks.  
  
She squeaks again, and her body shudders.  
  
"How about that?" He licks her nipple again, pinches the other. His hand down between her legs rubs a little, fingers moving to find her damp. He licks again, and she mewls; this time her chest arches towards him and stays there.  
  
"Good. I think. I don't know." She's breathless.  
  
His dick twitches, and he closes his eyes for a moment, struggling to keep a hold over himself. His little bird's skin is on fire now, and he feels hot as well, but he can't undress, can't risk it. He suckles on her nipple until she whimpers over and over, gasping out words here and there - 'Warm' and 'good' and 'Sandor' and perhaps a few others but most of it is unintelligible.  
  
The little bird spreads her legs more, her fingers on his shoulders, curling so that her nails scrape against him lightly. "I...please..."  
  
"Please what, little bird?" he groans, kissing under her breast, down her stomach. He strokes a finger against her cunt, shuddering at how wet she's become - how wet he's made her.  
  
"More?"  
  
Sandor moves his hand at her breast down to his breeches. He kisses above her curls, his fingers trying to please her, trying to find that sweet spot. He hates not knowing exactly how to please her. "You have to tell me what feels good and what doesn't, little bird."  
  
"I will. _Please_."  
  
Sandor groans and unlaces his breeches enough to stroke himself as he moves his mouth to Sansa's cunt. Technically, he's done this before - once - but it's been years. He licks up her slit, feeling her shudder and writhe, until his tongue brushes over her clit and she cries out. His fingers tighten for a moment around his cock.  
  
Seven fucking hells, the little bird tastes _good_.

 _Seven fucking hells,_ the little bird is his _wife_.  
  
_**Seven fucking hells**._  
  
"Please, that feels good. That feels very good," she moans, her hips wriggling towards him.  
  
He would tease her for forgetting all about propriety except he only wants to come and to make her come, too, so he licks her again, and again, growling at the way she whimpers, the way she arches up and towards him, the feel of her legs writhing against his chest.  
  
Sansa is back to the incoherent attempts at speaking, her fingers brushing over his hair. She might be saying his name, or asking for more, or confirming that it still feels good. One of her feet brushes against his thigh, near his hand on his cock.  
  
Sandor groans and grips her hip with his other hand. His hand at his cock moves faster, he suckles on his little bird's sweet spot and licks faster; he's almost there. He thinks the little bird is, too, the way her body seems to be tensing up, the higher pitch of her cries.  
  
His pretty bird. His pretty wife.  
  
_Mine._  
  
Sansa lets out a cry that is almost like a sob, and her body shudders, legs pressed tightly against his shoulders. She clutches at the sheet and cries; he thinks he hears her say his name again.  
  
He comes grunting against her, still licking at her while she quivers. For a moment he looses control and just presses his face to her abdomen, clutching her hip tight enough that she might wear bruises for a short while. He closes his eyes while her fingers clutch at his hair and her breathing begins to calm down.  
  
When the fog clears, he realizes that he is the one that is shedding tears after it all, not his little bird. He curses the wine and kisses her stomach.  
  
"Can you sleep now, little bird?" he asks her, cleaning his hand with the edge of the sheet.  
  
"Yes," she murmurs, already sounding half passed out. "Will you lay with me?"  
  
Sandor pauses for a moment and then crawls onto the bed, pulling his pretty wife on top of him. "Aye, I'll lay with you, Sansa."

**Author's Note:**

> So this is rather fluffer and pornier than originally intended, but it was written not long after Blackwater aired, and I guess I needed to write band-aid fic. Feedback appreciated! :)


End file.
